Healing Touch
by The Madhatter2
Summary: [HouseCuddy] There’s something about his touch that starts to heal the broken remains inside her.


**HEALING TOUCH**

By The Madhatter

Disclaimer: House M.D. belongs to David Shore and Fox. No infringement intended. This is purely for fun.

Rating: K

Genre: Little bit of angst

Pairing: House/Cuddy

Spoilers: Little bit from "Finding Judas"

A/N: First fic I've written, finished and posted in a while (like March or something). Hope you guys enjoy this one. (Lame title, I know)

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They only touch when no one is around. Or more like she touches him; he only touches on rare occasions, and even then it's almost to the point of extinction. He always does everything his own way and it doesn't surprise her. She's glad that when she does touch him, he doesn't back away or flinch. It's more than she could ask for.

Cuddy opens the door to House's darkened office softly as she regards him sitting quietly on a stool, elbows propped on his knees, fingers laced together near his chin in deep thought. She heard the news of his current patient – the patient refused treatment, elected to die out of guilt and shame – and came up here as soon as she could without being too conspicuous. She stands still for a moment, unconsciously holding her breath as to not disturb this reverent moment. Finally, he blinks and shifts, slightly indicating that it's safe to approach. She slowly makes her way toward him and stands close enough to touch him, but she holds back for now. It's not safe just yet.

"You did all you could do," she offers quietly. It's pathetic and he hates platitudes, she knows, but she feels the need to say it anyway, just to get it out of the way.

House shakes his head slightly. "He wants to die… because he thinks he feels guilty about his wife's death. He wants to leave his kids orphans because he can't deal with it. He said his kids deserve better." He looks up into her eyes, searching for… something, an answer maybe, then looks away again. "I don't know whether that's a good thing or not."

This time, she reaches out and places her hand on his shoulder lightly. "That's not for you to decide. It's ultimately his decision."

"He asked me to end it quickly," House half-whispers.

She squeezes his shoulder once. "What did you tell him?"

House scoffs. "What does it matter?" He looks up at her again. "He's going to die anyway. It's just a matter of whether it'll be in the next few hours or the next few days."

"House…" she starts to warn. "Did you tell him—"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I recited the doctorly thing, but that didn't stop him from trying to choke himself to death with all the tubes. Barely had enough time to stop him."

Cuddy's eyes widen. No one reported a suicide attempt. "I didn't—"

"Of course not," he says bitterly. "I was the only one in the room at the time. Don't worry, I've got someone watching him right now. He won't be able to escape from his world until God says so."

Cuddy wisely doesn't reply. Instead, she moves behind him and places both hands on his shoulders, slowly working out the knots under her fingers. He usually doesn't spill this much all at once about his thoughts of a patient, so it must bother him enough to voice something or… Maybe he finally trusts her enough, but casts that aside because he wouldn't let her touch him if he didn't trust her. Or because he and Wilson still aren't on the best terms so she's temporarily replacing the best friend. But he's talking and that's all that matters right now. She keeps going until he places a hand on one of hers signaling for her to stop.

"How come you never told me?" he asks quietly, turning slightly to look at her.

Her eyebrows scrunch in confusion. "Tell you what?" she replies, squeezing his shoulders one last time and moves to stand next to him again. "If you're asking about my password or access codes…"

One corner of his lips turns upward in a faint grin. "Those would be nice, but no. I mean about the… you know." He gestures to her abdomen.

"What?" She looks down at the blouse she's wearing not seeing what he's referring to. There's no hole or stain or… oh. _That_. "Oh… Did Wilson tell you?" she asks quietly, looking down at the ground.

"Wilson? No. I just… Okay, he might've mentioned something. It was an off-hand comment that I didn't pick up until recently."

Cuddy nods, not knowing what to say or trusting her voice enough to say anything. It happened so long ago… but it still hurts every time she thinks about it. So she fiddles with the pearls hanging around her neck instead.

"Cuddy… I…"

"Don't."

She feels him tug on her free hand until she's standing between his legs, trying not to look at him. But that doesn't last for long because he has the uncanny ability to hold her gaze when she doesn't want to, forcing her to concentrate on him. His eyes look bluer in the dim moonlight streaming through the windows and the security lights in the room, and everything he doesn't say is written in his eyes. She closes her eyes not sure she wants to see anymore, not sure she can hold her composure for much longer – and then she feels his arms around her waist and his face pressed into her belly. She lets out a breath and runs her hands through his hair, touching the fading scar on his neck lightly, until she can wrap her arms around him too.

And it's just the two of them in this moment.

It's unusual for him to touch her like this, much less hold her, but she doesn't complain because they both need this. It's a breakdown of sorts as they cling to each other uncharacteristically, but it's healthy and strangely natural. There's no hesitation, no awkwardness, just need.

But it ends all too soon when he pulls back, rests his hands on her hips and looks into her eyes. She runs her fingers through his hair one more time and leans down to press a soft kiss to his forehead.

"Thank you," she whispers into his ear.

He closes his eyes and nods, dropping his hands from her hips. She doesn't expect him to say anything so she turns to walk away when she feels another tug on her hand. She looks down into his blue eyes and nearly gasps at the tender look in his eyes. Something twists inside her and she's unable to look away. Then, she realizes he's reading her emotions, probably her thoughts too, to check if she's really okay. His grip tightens for a moment, and she draws comfort from the gesture, wondering briefly when this turned into a therapy session for her, before he lets her hand fall freely. She closes her hand into a fist to keep the warmth in a little longer before smoothing her blouse as he turns back to the papers scattered on his desk. As she leaves, she places a hand on her stomach longingly. There's something about his touch that starts to heal the broken remains inside her. It's not much, but it's something. And she hopes her touch does the same for him.


End file.
